June 30, 2006

Ironically enough, tonight I finally got to see the pitcher's duel, barn-burner, come-from-behind victory I've always longed for, but the part I'll be boring my grandchildren with was a play in the outfield--specifically, the eye-popping catch by Coco Crisp to save Mike Timlin's bacon and end the eighth.

I'll never forget seeing him leap, fly, dive, and roll on the warning track from my clear vantage point in Loge Box 150; I'll never forget how wide my father's eyes were as he put his hands up in surprise and celebration. All 36,000 in the ballpark screamed for minutes on end, screamed and screamed and somehow no screams of joy and gratitude seemed loud enough.

But, of course, it had been a magical game before then. That was just the cherry on the perfect sundae that this game had been--my first Curt Schilling start, live and in person (and I would submit one relief appearance by the Ghost of Schilling last July hardly counts as really having seen him).

The biggest difference between Schilling and the other pitchers, now that I've experienced his day to pitch, is how everyone talks to him constantly in the stands. They call him "Schill" and "Curt" and "baby" and "buddy" and "boy" as in "atta boy". Red Sox fans in the stands at Fenway talk to Curt from their seats like he can hear them, and like he'll respond--and he does respond, by reaching back for 95 and striking the motherfucker out. When he does so, the fans continue their chatter in praise and encouragement, to let him know he's on the right track. "Atta boy, Schill, all right, atta baby."

Fitting for a guy who likes to talk as much as Schilling does--I've never heard fans be so verbal about a pitcher.

Schilling, and his fellow lion in winter, the once-indomitable Tom Glavine (who is from Billerica, as is mentioned every single time his name has been brought up on NESN) were each exquisite in their own way; Schilling muscled his way through seven strong, arm-wrestling most of the batters he faced into submission, while Glavine, in characteristic style, floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. The two remained neck and neck until the sixth, with just zeros on the board until a towering homer to straightaway center by Official Pain in the Ass Carlos Beltran put the Mets on top.

After that, two incredible things happened--first and foremost, the ballpark erupted into cheers. I had noticed an unusually strong number of Mets jerseys coming in, and a few "Let's. Go. Mets. Hoo!" chants had been started, but it wasn't until Beltran's homer that I realized just how out in force Mets fans were at this game. It seemed like half the ballpark stood up. A taste of our own medicine, the way RSN takes over other ballparks like a virus, but I'm afraid I'm just not a big enough person for it not to have made me fairly angry. I was also, as you can imagine, pretty pissed off that Schilling had cracked first, to boot.

But then the second amazing thing happened--both pitchers, heretofore locked in stalemate, began to decline in precisely the same perfectly dovetailed arcs as the innings wore on, and Glavine posted a matching "2" in the bottom of that same inning.

For both pitchers it had been a total shutout until the sixth inning, and for Glavine, a no-hitter through almost that much. These two were continually outdoing one another--and themselves. Schilling's fastball blazed; Glavine's changeup was filthy. I, for one, was in heaven.

And all that is to say nothing of the breathtaking infield defense we were also treated to tonight, especially on the part of Messrs. Youkilis and Lowell. Lowell in particular came through with several gems, including a putout on a bunt-for-base-hit attempt that was a thing of tearjerking beauty. And Youkilis made a diving stop at first, and then there was the pickoff of Reyes attempting to steal second (though I still maintain he'd been out at first three times already), and then when the crafty Mark Loretta helped Schilling pick Julio Franco off second...I lost count of how many times my dad said, "That was a BEAUTY!"

If the game was a five-course meal of baseball gourmet, Jonathan Papelbon was dessert. And a sinful Black Forest Cake at that--even the Mets fans behind us, who had insisted on remaining dourly seated as the home crowd exploded around them when Coco Crisp finally scored the go-ahead run in the seventh and Papi added insurance with a 20-kiloton bomb to the bleachers in the eighth, wound up sheepishly standing to watch Jonathan.

Already juiced by Coco's dazzling catch just moments earlier, "Sweet Caroline" rousingly sung and the Papi blast, the crowd went so completely wild as the first chords of Jonathan's entrance music sounded that I wondered seriously if we might ever just shake that old place down. It took him just a handful of pitches to retire the Mets, and I was there, goddammit, watching every one, screaming my fool head off, happy just to be alive.

June 28, 2006

It used to be practically a requirement for entry into Red Sox culture to tell ghost stories--to regularly feel the hairs stand up on the back of our necks whenever the present moment interlocked with some shuddersome memory. The word "ghost" must have been used millions of times following the Sox' devastating collapse against the Yankees in 2003. The ghost of Babe Ruth. The ghosts of Yankee Stadium. Grady Little himself quickly became a ghost. The ghosts followed us into 2004--for nearly the entire first half of that season, even guys who were still on the team were walking around with their ghosts hanging off them like Peter Pan's shadow.

On October 27, 2004, it all changed. I don't know that I could even put my finger, though, on what exactly felt so new and different about our first season and a half post-World Series, until tonight, when Pedro Martinez walked out of the visitor's dugout.

Talk about ghosts. There were easily a trillion of them. Several players, including Papi and Manny, prismed into triple, even quadruple, versions of themselves. And Pedro, at the heart of it all, was a million things. A million things.

Before he even took the mound, Pedro was heartily cheered on his way out to the bullpen. And then he did something I never thought he'd do--something I'd never seen him do--something I'd never imagined possible. Pedro let his game face dissolve. He even smiled, and waved to the crowd.

On the second pitch Pedro threw to the Red Sox--in the mid-eighties on the gun and purportedly a fastball--Kevin Youkilis knocked it into right center. Then Loretta singled to right. My heart sank.

And then Papi came to the plate. It was like being jolted with electric current watching these two face one another. Papi's career numbers against Pedro are dismal, but they mostly date back to Papi's years with the Twins, when Pedro was regarded as a divinity and Ortiz was nobody. Even if you could put Papi now up against the 1999 Pedro, though, my money's still on Pedro; I think he gets him swinging.

But that's not the case, of course--instead Papi hit a weak grounder right back to him, and Pedro whirled around, looking at third and then at second as if he didn't know where he was. Papi had technically lost the battle, but it became clear shortly afterward that just his old friend looming in front of him had set the aging Martinez's mind adrift.

The unshakable, unflappable, intimidating Pedro was gone. Completely gone. Gone in a way I would have told you, before that terrible moment, was unthinkable.

And I don't just say that because his velocity was all but nonexistent and his control shaky in that first inning--it was that mental mistake that was most devastating to watch. The young, invincible, mean Pedro Martinez was once and for all a thing of the past.

A ghost.

After that, the Sox fired up the merry-go-round, plating four runs, which should've been two but for an absolutely devastating error by Lastings Milledge. Everyone looked vaguely sick.

I wished right then that it was over. I wished the Mets manager would pull him. I wanted there to be mercy. But there wasn't.

So far, both sides had totally let their guard down to one another; the fans cheering Pedro, Pedro smiling at the fans. The fans were starting to get their groove back as the game got underway, but not Pedro. He continued to struggle, as did the defense behind him. It wasn't till he'd faced eight batters that Pedro was able to walk off the field. Words do not describe my relief when Coco Crisp finally grounded out to second to end the inning. Enough.

I wanted the Sox to win, of course. But the game I wanted to win wasn't like this. The game I'd envisioned, looked forward to for months, was a duel between the young phenom and the old master; the game I'd envisioned was something like the one-run beauty between Pedro and David Wells, pitching for the Padres, back around this time in 2004. A game deserving of both its pitching headliners--a game, in other words, in which there is a loss, but no defeat.

This was defeat. I root for the laundry as much as anyone, but you might as well have drawn a moustache on the Mona Lisa right in front of me. I want the Sox to win at absolutely all times, but I never wanted to see that.

Josh Beckett, at least, held up his end of the bargain. I didn't think any curveball could top the one John Lester threw last night in the top of the fifth. But in the top of the second Becket threw a curveball for a called strike so dramatic, it seemed as if the bill of his cap brushed the grass in front of the mound as he followed through. Simply an undeniably gorgeous pitch, even if I was sorry that Beckett danced alone.

As Pedro struggled and was replaced after the third, Beckett sat glaring in the dugout, warmup jacket over one shoulder, his intensity establishing an invisible field of solitude around him on the bench. The transfer of power was nearly visible; whatever transcendental id possesses the gifted pitcher had left Pedro and begun to look out of Beckett's eyes.

Pedro, showing at least one flash of his old self, had run a fastball in to Mark Loretta, thus ending the various betting pools about which Red Sox he would bean when the ball stung Loretta on the fingers. Later on, though, Beckett retaliated with a perfectly matched slap on the fingers to Paul Lo Duca in the top of the sixth, seeming at once both a simple eye for an eye and pure showing off by Beckett--not only had he hit Lo Duca purposely and aimed the ball precisely where Pedro had put it, but he put a guy on base on purpose with less than two outs. He, you see, could afford the baserunners.

Seven and two-thirds innings deep in the game, with four hits, two runs, seven strikeouts, one walk, having hit 96 and 97 on the gun consistently the whole night, Beckett walked off the mound to an ovation that rivaled, if it didn't equal, the ones that Pedro had received. When he doffed his cap, the roar swelled even louder. Pedro can have all the charisma he wants, but it's that id we follow--that swing-and-a-miss magic.

Like any of the cycles of baseball, this one is inexorable and seemingly eternal. We were reminded in the pre-game show of another landmark matchup in which a torch was passed in Boston, the famous first Pedro-Roger faceoff in Game 3 of the 1999 ALCS. We were reminded that that game, too, had not been the duel everyone had hoped for (though it was to be the only win for the Sox in that series). It's happened before. It will happen again. Someday Josh Beckett will watch as a younger man walks off the field with his glory. And that, too, will be bittersweet.

June 27, 2006

The moment, in the midst of the thunderous ovation for his video at Fenway Park--not for his start, for his video montage, a five-minute standing ovation--when Pedro Martinez stood up on the top step of the visitor's dugout, raised his arms up toward the crowd, and then brought them around his shoulders and hugged everyone in spirit. One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, on the baseball field or off. Pedro Martinez is pure magic on two legs--we're just lucky to have witnessed it, and God love us, we know our role.

And then, that whole fifth inning. My Jesus.

Lastings Milledge, HBP. That's just for starters. And is "Lastings Milledge" a textbook baseball guy name, or what?

Poor Mr. Milledge out at second for the first out of the inning--but Jose Reyes, who grounded into a FC, has no idea what awaits him: namely, a closeup look at the mighty pillar of the left Thigh of Freedom (tm Kristen), planted firmly into the dirt around home plate.

Reyes, unsuspectingly to second on a single by Paul Lo Duca. Then Carlos Beltran, the biggest pain in the ass ever to don a baseball uniform if it's not that of your home team, hits a cracking single to left, and here comes a--

And then it's one of those times that Manny has gulped down a can of spinach in the outfield while no one was looking, and suddenly, the ball comes screaming in from left field like it hit a springboard out there off Beltran's bat, and then Varitek has it in his glove and then MIGHTY EARTHSHATTERING BOOM Jose Reyes is lying in several pieces on the ground.

Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but that impact (as illustrated salaciously by the many slow-motion replays that followed it) was truly wince-inducing. Reyes got owned. By Varitek's leg. Which, frankly, is the last leg anyone should want to fuck with.

And then Manny, nodding and chuckling to Pedro in the dugout, the way he used to, pointing to his temple the way Pedro so famously did once to Jorge Posada. A precious moment. Just Pedro being there changed the whole atmosphere in that ballpark--say what you want about him, but that charisma is planet-sized.

But then. Two outs in the top of the fifth--and it's one of those innings where you look up at the scoretab at the top of the screen for the count or the pitch speed and you see ^5 and go, hot damn, is it STILL the fifth inning? John Lester is officially struggling; he walks Delgado, the bases are loaded, the Sox are only up by three. In the blink of an eye, it's a full count to David Wright. In his baseball cap, Jon Lester looks like a five-year-old boy perched on a scarecrow's body. I was hyperventilating.

To maximize my suffering, Wright proceeded to foul off 3,547 pitches after that. Lester seemed to throw to him dozens of times with that count still full and the bases still juiced and the Sox still only up by three.

I cannot imagine what it was like to be John Lester in that moment. It must have seemed like the fate of the world was hanging in the balance, as he brought his glove down slowly in front of his face and breathed deep, ready to throw his umpteenth pitch to Wright in an at-bat that had quickly announced itself as the probable turning point of the whole game.

His next curveball was among the most wonderful pitches of the season. Wright fell for it hook, line and sinker, and his bat came up empty while Fenway exploded. You could see people leaping to their feet behind home plate before Varitek had even closed his glove around the ball.

The same way I can still tell you that the kid blinking back tears that they show in a game from early in the 2004 season on Faith Rewarded is not from that game, he's from the game where David Ortiz flied out to the warning track with what would've been the game winning home run, and that game was in September; the same way I can tell you in about half a second that that's the final pitch of the walk to Kevin Millar in game 4 if you flash the video clip in front of me; the same way I can recall countless other little Red Sox moments like that instantaneously when I see them again even years later, and feel that irresistible urge to lean back in my chair, nod at the screen and tell people, whether they want to hear it or not, "Oh, THAT was the game where..." that's the way I'll react if they show that last pitch Lester threw to David Wright.

That was the kind of game it was. I'll be able to name it--even years later--in one fist-pump.

P.S. A crying shame that the ultimate baseball reporter Peter Gammons couldn't be there to witness this gem of a game...thoughts and hearts are with him and his family tonight.

June 26, 2006

Another day, another walkoff hit by David Ortiz. And fortunately for me, I didn't witness Rudy Seanez's outing, or the home run Jonathan gave up to Chase Utley, which was about the cheapest homer possible at Fenway.

But it's with a heavy heart I fired up Typepad tonight, as it has been brought to my attention that...well...

Imagine your reaction if one of the foremost orthopedic doctors in the country asked you to purposely break your chronically balky knee in a last-ditch attempt to generate cartilage growth. And oh, by the way, it would take two years to recover.

Los Angeles Dodgers third baseman Bill Mueller doesn't have to imagine it. Dr. Richard Steadman of Vail, Colo., examined Mueller's right knee and suggested a remedy that would effectively end the 35-year-old third baseman's career.

"It was heartbreaking that he didn't have the answer," said Mueller, a DeSmet High graduate. "It was very discouraging."

After three surgeries on the knee, it has almost no cartilage left. So even when he heals from the surgery he had last month, it is doubtful he will be able to play baseball.

"I can't even walk on it without it swelling up," he said.

Mueller will continue daily treatment, including walking in a swimming pool to reduce the weight he places on the knee. By the first week of July, the knee should have healed from the surgery and doctors can evaluate the amount of cartilage left. Options include cartilage replacement surgery and the radical surgery proposed by Steadman. Both procedures have low success rates.

"They really need to realign my leg by rebreaking it," he said. "But the cartilage might wear out as fast as it is generated."

The loss of Mueller, who is in the first year of a two-year, $9.5 million contract, is a big blow to the Dodgers. The career .291 hitter got off to a hot start and slowed when the knee began bothering him, batting .252 in 32 games. He led the American League in batting in 2003, when he hit .326 for Boston.

"It's very discouraging," Dodgers manager Grady Little said. "That's all it's been since he went down."

I don't really have much to say about it. Just sadness.

P.S. For a much better post on yesterday's game, head on over to Emma's. It's good to see her writing.

June 25, 2006

With the Sox rained out and the only other alternative being golf, I watched the Portugal / Netherlands game with my dad this afternoon. Although there were some highlights--like my dad saying, of Portugal's Nuno Ricardo Oliveira Ribeiro, aka Maniche, "watch out for this guy"--and talking to my boss, a native Brit and an England fan, about the earlier Ecuador / England match--it was a pretty ridiculous game to say the least.

My dad and I both exclaimed over the amount of injury-faking and dive-taking and dirty playing going on. There were 14 yellow cards and four red cards in that game, and I don't know shit from Shinola about this game (as my dad pointed out to me while we were rather unsuccessfully trying to bicker the way we do about baseball but were sadly not very well equipped), but any way you slice it, that was a drag.

"A terrible game which served to remind me why I don't watch football any more," Iain said when we were it later. "Lots of petulant stars rolling all over the floor pretending to be mortally wounded and no real game to watch."

FIFA may come to regret that game was on when it was--prime Sunday afternoon time in the US, especially in the east where rain was cancelling baseball games. Given our American attention spans, that game could have turned millions of potential US fans of the World Cup either on or off the game, and in retrospect it will be off. We've already gone and invented four completely new and different sports rather than really get into this one...and it's not going to sweeten the deal when what we see of it is a bunch of guys rolling around on the ground crying.

No game today on account of even more rain, this after the field was ravaged by two games that probably could also have been called. Perfect for me, though, since I still need to get caught up on yesterday's (I didn't see Friday's as I was getting my arse kicked thoroughly by my favorite band at the Tweeter Center Great Woods).

So.

I love the walkoff. I really do. Do not get me wrong--I LOVE the walkoff. In fact, as I watched Ortiz do his postgame interview, that bicycle chain of diamonds around his neck, that smile on his face, saying, "You got some weather coming in here, so you don't want to be here much longer..." I said, "It's like he's God. Like he decided to intervene so people didn't have to sit in the rain anymore."

And then Steve pointed out that it was also probably because he and Manny had reservations at Kow Loon at 6 pm. Julia's husband Geoff made a hilarious gesture in imitation of what an impatient Manny was doing in the dugout (oh, we were with A.R. Julia btw).

"God knows," Steve said in his best Manny-voice, "I'm not gonna get no lo mein with Pedro coming next week, mang." Which called upon a previous IBW scenario we cooked up years ago in which we concluded Manny sometimes strikes out on purpose because Pedro is eating his lo mein from the order that just came in to the clubhouse.

So yes. We loved the walkoff. David Ortiz makes us happy about life.

But Jonathan Papelbon.

Oh, BABY.

THAT was the real highlight yesterday--the way Jonathan made clear that, beauteous as he's been, we hadn't even come CLOSE to making him really break a sweat until this late date in June.

It's pretty much impossible to pick a favorite from among the mighty swinging strikeouts Jonathan racked up in the course of 2 1/3 innings of flawless relief. Although if pressed, I'd have to say it would be the three straight heaters to Pat Burrell, all of which Burrell swung at from the heels, after an intentional walk to Bobby Abreu to load the bases with two outs in a top of the ninth I don't think I'll ever forget.

But--you don't want to overlook the bottom of the tenth, in which for openers Papelbon set Ryan Howard and Aaron Rowand spinning like tops in quick succession.

If it seems like Papi can decide when a game is over any time he wants, it seems too like Jonathan can yank a batter's body into motion as if he's holding marionette strings.

He is so dominant that it's like he's a new, more evolved improvement on the pitching species, cutting his teeth on helpless Neanderthals. And I'll never get tired of watching that, although sometimes it seems almost a cruel thing to enjoy.

So yes, we love the walkoff--suffice to say it was an embarrassment of riches. But it was Jonathan who was truly the hero and the virtuoso yesterday.

Doug Mientkiewicz made a truly spectacular catch in the top of the first inning on a pop-up in foul territory from Jorge Cantu. Mientkiewicz dived over the tarp and made the catch somewhere between bracing himself for the fall through the small space between the tarp and the wall.

Once umpire Dale Scott rushed over and ruled the catch, Mientkiewicz received a standing ovation as he trotted into the dugout.

June 24, 2006

TIM MCCARVER:"In Scrabble, W's are worth more than S's, but for Papelbon, S's are worth more than W's."

JOE BUCK: "...Folks, you can feel free to just shut off your TV right now. Just go do something else."

Also, when they showed Papelbon talking trash in the bullpen about his Scrabble abilities--somehow trash talk sounds incredible in that drawl of his--complete with neck-workin' and one finger held sassily in the air while he said, "Don't make me bring the Scrabble board to tha lawker room..." I pretty much died instantly.

(I must note here also that I would absolutely waste your ass at Scrabble, Jonathan Papelbon.)

I can't fully explain the circumstances, but suffice to say I was on a business trip, there was a special celebrity guest speaker for a conference keynote address…and it was none other than Mr. Bill Belichick, head coach of your three-time World Champion New England Patriots, football genius, and Guy Who Has Personally Touched Tom Brady.

When he came out onstage, he was wearing a suit, and he probably smiled more in the course of a forty-five minute presentation followed by Q & A more times than I have seen him smile in five years' worth of stalking the sidelines, appearing on DVDs, and conducting press conferences. It still, however, looked as if it was physically painful for him to make his face bend that way. Also, the suit, while un-hooded as suits tend to be, was still the charcoal grey he swears by in his sweatshirt wardrobe.

He gave a talk about general business and management philosophy, as exemplified by his leadership of the football team. It was tangentially related to the conference at best, but I was in heaven as he broke out film footage, showing how certain plays had been run in practice and how they had turned out in actual game situations—for example the 60-yard touchdown pass from Brady to Branch in the 2004 AFC Championship against Pittsburgh. The footage of the play in practice, in which Brady hit Givens for 20 yards as scripted, preceded footage of the game.

Belichick also told the story of when Matt Light asked for the night off in training camp after a particularly blistering day of practice, and Belichick made him a deal—catch a punt and you get the night off; fail to field it cleanly and the whole team runs double the wind sprints at the end of practice.

As the story goes, and as Belichick relayed it, Light suddenly had more coaching than he knew what to do with, from Troy Brown to Tom Brady, everyone around him babbling urgent instructions. Light eventually did field the punt.

I'd heard that story before. But I hadn't seen the video. Until Wednesday night, where it was shown, to the delight of even the non-football inclined in the audience, on a pair of ten-foot high screens onstage in the main conference center auditorium.

It's safe to say I pretty much love my job.

I also knew I would never forgive myself (to say nothing of my father) if I didn't at least make an honest attempt to get an autograph and / or picture with Belichick. Starting with a toady working crowd control, moving up to his supervisor and then his supervisor's supervisor and then finally his supervisor's supervisor's supervisor (along the way spouting trivia to prove the depth of my knowledge and dedication to Mr. Belichick's franchise), I worked my way up the chain of command till I was standing before a high-ranking man with a headset who told me very nicely that no, Belichick had been "very specific" about his refusal to meet with any and all rabid Patriots fans who might be in attendance after his talk.

So it was a good thing, prior to all this, that I screwed my courage to the sticking point, and raised my hand during the Q & A.

As about 99% of the people at these conferences tend to be male, and he couldn't see me in the lights, Belichick pointed to me and said :"yes, sir." Then immediately he looked a little harder and said, "I'm sorry, ma'm, go ahead."

An ignominious beginning to our conversation, but I persevered.

Others had asked questions about specific famous instances in Patriots history, such as the introduction as a team in Super Bowl XXXVI, as they related to management techniques, etc., etc., yawn.

"What was the rationale," I said to Bill freakin' Belichick, who was standing right there 20 feet away from me and holy crap I don't believe it, "behind not re-signing McGinest and Vinatieri? Was it to make the team younger, or…?"

The point isn't whether or not he gave me a real answer (he didn't). The point isn't what question I answered at all. The point is that the same girl who couldn't even wave "hi" to Curt Schilling about a year ago got over the star-struck hump and can now say she has had a conversation, if brief, with Coach Belichick.

My dad has a saying. "No balls, no blue chips." I still would've liked a picture, but he's damn right. Oh, and speaking of my Dad, he got John Henry's autograph in the Fenway bleachers at almost the very moment I was asking my question of Belichick.

June 20, 2006

All the usual caveats: It's a long season, the last two teams we've played aren't exactly burning up the league, nor is the team that swept us just five short days ago. Our pitching's still held together with chewing gum, baling wire and luck. Our offense is a shadow of its former self the last few years.

But:

A season high 17 hits tonight against the hapless Ivan Hernandez (half brother to Orlando). A double for Dougie. A homer for Coco. Craig Hansen hitting 98 on the gun. A win for Wake--only the second of his last seven starts. The Sox are undefeated since the return of Gabe Kapler.

More from ESPN:

The Red Sox, who have won 11 of their last 12 interleague games, finished with a season-high 17 hits. Alex Cora was 3-for-3 with three runs scored. He is 19-for-50 (.380) over his last 17 games.

Coco Crisp's home run over the Green Monster in left to open the bottom of the seventh was his first career home run at Fenway Park.

[...]

The Sox had scored six runs in Wakefield's eight losses this season. They equaled that total in the second inning, battering Nationals starter Livan Hernandez for six runs on six hits and knocking him out of the game after just 1 2/3 innings.

The six runs are the second-highest single-inning total for Boston this year. The Sox had a seven-run third inning in a 9-1 win over the Tampa Bay Devil Rays on April 19.

The six hits in an inning are a season high for the Sox.

-- Hernandez's outing was his shortest of the season. Prior to tonight, the earliest he had been taken out of a game in 15 starts was after 5 1/3 innings. He threw 39 pitches in the second inning, before being lifted.

[...]

Mark Loretta's two-run single in the second snapped a 16-game RBI-less streak for the second baseman. His last RBI prior to knocking in two tonight came on May 31 against the Toronto Blue Jays.

Doug Mirabelli's second innning RBI Wall Ball double, which scored Trot Nixon with the first Red Sox run, snapped an 0 for 12 skid for the backup catcher. Prior to that, his last hit was a home run against the Yankees on June 5.

A winning record so far in June. Five straight wins. 7-1 in interleague play this year. The best fielding percentage in team history at this point in the season. Alex freakin' Gonzalez hitting .250 and .325 for the month of June. 2 games up in first place in the AL East.

And Jonathan Papelbon just appeared on my TV screen kissing his fingertips, flashing the two-finger sign, and saying, as whiteboy as whiteboy can be, "Peace."

All the usual caveats. But I just can't get this stinkin' grin off my face.

Statcounter C2F

Copyright

WHAT THIS MEANS:
It means you can quote me or reproduce parts of my posts--the sharing of ideas are what the blogosphere is all about.
But it means YOU MUST ATTRIBUTE THE SOURCE. Say where you got the quote from. Say whose idea it was. Say who found the information. Give credit where credit is due.
Do NOT reproduce any of my posts as a whole. Do NOT reproduce any of my content for commercial gain. ESPECIALLY DO NOT PASS MY WORK OFF AS YOUR OWN. Plagiarists will be found, humiliated, and, where appropriate, prosecuted.
ALL CONTENT UNLESS OTHERWISE NOTED IS SOLE PROPERTY OF THE SITE AUTHOR AND PROTECTED UNDER COPYRIGHT.

CONTACT

I'm happy to talk with you about exchanging links or advertising on this blog, but please don't use my site's comments section to explicitly promote your site or your business without getting in touch with me first.